


Time to Go

by SherlockMalfoy



Series: Sherlock!Wizardverse Drabbles - General [37]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Addict Sherlock, Gen, Timey-Wimey, Wizards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 05:30:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5696800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockMalfoy/pseuds/SherlockMalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years on the run Sherlock is confronted by the figure that's followed him all of his life.<br/>Tobias knows his father needs a push in the right direction to ensure his future comes to pass.<br/>That push comes in the form of a meeting in a cafe, with implications of a better life after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time to Go

He had known he was there.

Watching silently from a distance. Never coming close.

A dark figure at the edge of his life.

Always there, but always apart.

When he had run away, finding shelter in a forest near his godparents’ home, there the man was.

He didn’t see him, of course. But he knew he was there all the same.

Who else could have left his favorite treats and a blanket for him to keep warm?

And now, there this man was again.

Sitting in a café with one of those new muggle contraptions called a laptop. He was older now. Older than he had ever seen him.

So, he had approached him. This time, unlike the other few attempts he had made over the years, the man did not fade away. He did not leave upon his discovery.

“If you’re going to gape at me kid, might as well have a seat,” the gruff voice said. A voice he hadn’t expected to come from the gray haired man. “Get off those tired feet. You’ve been running a long time. Give ‘em a rest.”

“Very observant. You hadn’t even looked up from your work.”

“Didn’t need to. Been trackin you a long time.”

He sat. There was no reason not to. Quickly ash colored eyes examined the table before him. The computer took quite a lot of space. But in the open surface of the table there sat a small saucer of biscuits and two cups. He was expected.

“Excellent deduction Sherlock.”

“How do you know that name?”

“Like I said. Been tracking you a long time,” he replied, silver eyes glancing up from the screen a moment before turning their attention back to it. “Yes. That long.”

“You plan to take me to the Ministry?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Lad, I’m not a bounty hunter. I’m not an auror. Detective, yes. But that was a lifetime ago.” He smiled.

Sherlock noted the man had a set of enlarged canines. Hardly noticeable to most, but to him… “You’re a werewolf.”

The man nodded. “And right now the only one keeping the Ministry off your back. Well, Scorpius does his part, but he’s a politician through and through.”

At the mention of his brother, Sherlock narrowed his eyes in suspicion. The werewolf only smiled again. Typing away on his computer. “Don’t worry, he hasn’t told a soul. I knew the moment the idea came into your rather brilliant mind what you were going to do. I’d have done the same. Have done on a few occasions.” At last, with one last push of a button he reached for one of the cups with one hand and closed his computer with the other.

Sherlock was silent now. Working through the implications of the man’s statements. He’d have known if he had been the victim of a legillimens. His mental barriers would have felt it.

The man watched him as he worked things out in his mind. He didn’t need to look into the younger wizard’s head to know what he was thinking. After all, he had spent years observing him. Years following him, ensuring that he come to no real harm even when the elder brother lost track of him from time to time.

“Well,” he said at last, draining the rest of his cup with a sigh. “Time for me to go.” He reached down for a bag beside his chair and began packing up his things.

“No.”

“Why?”

“You cannot simply sit here, for all to see, after stalking me through my entire life without giving me an answer. I demand to know-“

“Word of advice, Sherlock Holmes,” he said, knowing full well that the young man before him had no surname since he had left home decades ago. “It’s time to get clean. Time to go home.”

“Who are you to tell me what to do?”

The man had been about to rise when Sherlock’s hand had snaked out and grasped his arm tightly, bony fingers digging into the soft flesh of the inner wrist. He turned his head to look back at him. No anger, no sense of inconvenience. Just a simple, gentle expression. “Sherlock,” he said. “What if I told you that now is the time you become who you were meant to be?”

“I don’t believe in destiny. If you know so much about me, then you will understand that the very idea is-“

“I’m not talking destiny, you insufferable git. I’m talking about free will. The reason you ran away from the other world. It’s time to take control of your life, mate. Stop running and go back home. Be the man you’ve always wanted to be, and leave the wizarding world behind completely. Or, as completely as a creature like you is able.” He gave a smirk, then pulled his arm away when Sherlock’s expression turned to guarded surprise. “Yes, I know what you are. Does it matter? No. I could care less. But trust me Sherlock. This life you’ve got going now… There’s a better one waiting for you. Contact your brother. It’s time you stopped running and started making your own way. Who knows, you might even find someone who can put up with you. Or a challenging opponent. Or… You can continue to run. Continue to poison your body and piece by piece destroy your own mind until in the end, there is nothing left. Nothing but a strung out young wizard with less sense than Gilderoy Lockharte and less of a soul than Voldemort. Why destroy the transport when it’s the only thing protecting your brilliant mind?” He shrugged, and at last stood, careful to keep his arms out of Sherlock’s reach.

“Then again, I’m only just the creepy werewolf that’s been stalking you all these years.”

“Who are you?”

He frowned then. And for a moment, just a brief moment when Sherlock saw the pained look in this man’s silver eyes, he felt his strung out heart wrench. His stomach turned. And he never wanted to see such an expression on this man’s face again. There was a sense of wrongness about it. A sense of grief that he was the one who had placed it there.

The man forced a smile. But Sherlock knew the truth behind it. “Just a historian,” he said. “Jotting down the footnotes of record.”

He left him then. Sherlock watched him go. Watched him out the window, too, as far as the view of the street would allow.

Once he had rounded a corner, Toby dissapparated. Returning to his home in Sussex where he allowed himself the privilege of frowning. Not because of what he had just done. He knew it was important. There had to be the push… The push to get his father back to England. Back home and clean and starting the greatest adventure he would ever know.

No… It was having to see him, up close, in this state. That he could never tell his dear friend and grandfather the true state in which he had found Sherlock. Before he even went inside the cottage, he had cast his patronus, the large wolf that had been his curse and his gift for so many a long year.

“Go to Draco Malfoy with this message,” he said when the misty form had come close, trotting along beside him as he walked the well worn path from the end of the drive to the cottage. “I found him. He is alive. He will go to Scorpius on his own. He is damaged. Do not go to him. Do not attempt to contact him. He will likely run again.” The patronus tilted its head, staring at him and awaiting another command.

“Go to Harry Potter with this message,” he said. “Consider this my gift to you, in return for granting my freedom all those years ago.” He waved his wand quickly, sending the patronus wolf on its way with the messages for his grandparents. He walked the remainder of the path alone, and once inside his lonely cottage, he made a cup of tea, sat down, and started the long count of days until Sherlock Holmes, mostly sober and rather obnoxious, would wander into a crime scene and force his way into a morgue. Solving a case and annoying everyone involved.

“Wish I could be there when he meets Anderson,” he said to himself, picking up one of the muggle _Harry Potter_ novels and resuming from where he had left off.

While wildly inaccurate, they were a rather amusing piece of fiction.


End file.
